Purloin
by NellietheMarvelous
Summary: Caskett fluff. Oneshots about Castle finding Beckett in his shirt. 1000 word challenge.
1. White

**Disclaimer: Castle is not mine. **

**A/N: Okay so this isn't complete but it's a series of unrelated cute little oneshots about Castle finding Beckett in his shirt. The challenge was for each of them to be 1000 words. This one was 1093 because it's really hard to cut it down. Anyway, hope you enjoy. **

It's not the first time he's seen her like this. Long bare legs sticking out from under the tail of his white button down. And he's hit with the reminder of it. Their first morning and waking to find her barefoot and padding into his bedroom with two steaming cups of coffee in her hands. Something ethereal from a dream. He was so sure but no she was real. Is real. She's flesh and bone and warmth and smiling like she knows he's watching.

She probably does. She definitely does. She's intuitive like that. His detective. But he can't drag his eyes away. Not when she's flexing her toes, half the nails painted a dark red and he sometimes wonders what it says about his mental state when something like nail polish turns him on. But he loves it, loves watching her do this. It's girly and adorable to see. And he's so fond of when she sits up on the bathroom counter. Very very fond of it. How easy it would be to turn her, step between her thighs. He doesn't. He's still stuck on watching as she dips the brush back in the bottle. He can at least wait for the polish to dry before he seduces her out of his shirt.

Yeah. He'll wait. And he'll keep watching, eyes raking over her from head to toe. The unkempt knot of hair at the back of her skull, that calls for his fingers to free those abused strands. He ignores the plea for the moment, follows the curve of her jaw, smiling softly when she makes a tiny noise of frustration and blows a piece of hair out of her face.

She's concentrating, her brow pinched and lips parted and he almost says something. He almost breaks the tacit bubble to make fun, to remind her that it isn't like anyone sees her toes much anyway but he stays silent.

He'd rather remain a quit fixture leaning in the doorway, blessed with this privilege of seeing her unbuttoned. And she is...unbuttoned. The sides of his crisp white shirt open, one brushing against her thigh when she leans forward. He knows her. He knows each inch of her skin, every muscle beneath. He knows the power held in those thighs. Has felt them beneath his hands. Strong and steady, trembling and weak. He's always had a thing for her legs.

It's only become stronger. And it really does it for him, to see her like this. To find her awake and sitting atop the counter with her feet close the sink, knees close to her chest. He catches the hint of black lace, black beneath white and he knows. He knows her now. Better than ever. So he knows she picked that shirt for a reason, she hoped he'd find her. She pilfered his wardrobe more and more these days. Always coming out in a shirt or sweats that fell indecently low on her even with the strings tightened.

But she chose that white shirt because it drives him mad. He can see it in the smirk that takes over her lips. He's a lucky man.

She stretches languidly, pretending he's not there and yet putting on a show just to tease. Arching her back, letting him have a side view of more than just a hint of lace. A very lucky man. One who might not be able to wait till the polish dries if she keeps it up.

He clenches his fists, resists when his legs try to carry him to her. Every part of his body has a damn mind of its own when it comes to her and she knows it.

He's relieved and yet a little disappointed when she caps the bottle, leans heavily against her knees. She still hasn't looked at him. Not even a glance. Too busy killing him slowly when her arms wrap around her legs, her chin resting atop. She looks so young sometimes that it twists in his chest. Everything she is, everything that's happened to her to make her the best detective - hell, the best person - he's ever met, it's all been thrown at her, catapulted, speared and she's stronger because of it. But here, like this with him, she just seems so young and carefree.

His control breaks, their silence ruined when she purses her lips and blows a cool stream of air through them. The low groan is echoing before he can even think to try and stop it. She's going to kill him. His heart is going to give out one of these days.

"Oh, hey Castle." It's the laziness that gets him. The airy tone that's completely faked. She knew the very second he walked in.

"Hey," he's amazed his voice comes out steady. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep."

He doesn't say anything. Just hums at her and he doesn't even know what the sound means. An acknowledgment with no real feeling behind it at all. He's still distracted. All the bare skin, the fact that she's rolled up his sleeves and left the buttons undone is still wreaking havoc on his sleep addled brain.

And he knows the black lace, the peek of nipple through it, that is not what she went to bed wearing. Yeah, couldn't sleep? He's not buying it.

"So you decided to paint your nails before dawn?"

"I tried waking you. I had better plans in mind but you were out. Wouldn't keep your eyes open. Hurts a girls feelings, ya know." It doesn't. She's teasing, her lip disappearing between her teeth as she bites at her own smile.

She drives him completely insane.

"That before or after you found my shirt and the lovely lace number?"

"Guess you'll never know." And finally she looks at him. Her eyes full of heat, her legs swinging around until she's balancing on the edge of the counter. "But since you're awake..."

"Since I'm awake?" He follows her lead, closing the distance between them. Letting her wrap her arms around his neck when he grips her hips.

His heart hammers when she leans in and her lips brush his. He wonders idly if that's ever gonna end. He prays it won't.

"I might as well take advantage."


	2. Blue

**Disclaimer: Nope.**

**A/N: Another part of the shirt series. Beware of fluff. Enjoy.**

Kate Beckett, NYPD Detective is a thief. She steals. She swears it's borrowing but no, she flat out steals and occasionally returns items only to take them again at a later date. Maybe it's good she works homicide and not robbery. He's guessing it is. How would one arrest oneself? Castle isn't sure. He's also not sure how to handle what he's witnessing.

He watched the crime take place this very morning. He saw as she snuck along quietly, assuming he didn't see her and he caught her red handed as she shrugged into his shirt. His. Not her own. No. She went into their closet and came out wrapped in a blue number he'd peeled her out of more than once. Yet she kept taking it. His shirt. His favorite blue oxford and she couldn't keep her sticky fingers off of it.

It's not that he minds. He doesn't so much. She steals and won't admit it. She won't own up to it. Says she doesn't take his things often but she does. And maybe it's one of the things he loves about her. Okay it is one of the many many things he adores but one day he's gonna make her admit that she wears his shirts more than her own when they're home. She uses his razor, his shaving cream even though she buys her own. She swipes his pillow at night if he wakes up to write. And he can just forget about having the blankets because she'll take those too. He's engaged to a thief.

But it's what he's seeing right now that has him utterly speechless. His thieving partner has been at it again. She's at his desk. His desk. With his laptop. And she's typing on it. Typing away as if she's the writer in their relationship. He's incapable of saying anything at the moment. Too distracted by the feet she's propped up, the way she's leaning back in his chair with the computer warming her thighs. She pauses to reach for the cup of coffee, and he loves this part. He loves watching her close her eyes, enjoy the first steamy sip and listen as the little hum of enjoyment slips out. Sometimes it's more of a moan - like now - and it gets his blood pumping.

He watches her place the hot beverage back on the solid surface and shove the sleeves of his shirt up to her elbows. Whatever she's commandeered his laptop for must take immense concentration. He almost leaves her alone. He almost turns away but no. No it's his and he's nosy. He wants to know how she ended up in his shirt, in his office, typing away.

He waltzes in, she ignores him. He's used to that. She does that when she's focused. It takes him stepping in behind her, pushing her hair to the side and kissing her neck to have her notice him.

"What are you doing?"

"You'll see." He glances up to catch a peek but she's saving the document. Closing it before he can read more than a few scattered words. He didn't even see what she saved it under. He'll search as soon as he can. It wasn't long. He'd seen empty space, a lot of it which meant it couldn't be long. "Don't delete it."

"You know you're in my chair, Beckett." He strokes his hands down over her shoulders as she sets the laptop back on his desk, the blue fabric heated from her skin. He doesn't mind when she takes his shirts. He gets them back and they smell like her.

"You gonna make me move, tough guy?" Just for that, he does. He grabs her up, swinging her around until she's cradled in his arms. He ignores her squealing protest and giggles as she fights him.

She pushes at him halfheartedly, settles into him the moment he steals the spot he'd just evicted her from. His chair. It's still warm. And so is she.

She's always so warm. And he loves her like this, when she just lets him hold her and presses her face into his neck. He can feel her kisses. Can feel the scrape of her teeth against his skin. His hand slides up her thigh, beneath the hem of his shirt just to tease her. Just to have her fingers clenching at his shoulder.

And his curiosity gets the best of him. He needs to know. He abandons the trail he was blazing, vowing to return after he pulls up the documents on his computer.

She knew he'd do this. She knew or she wouldn't be smiling against his jaw. She wouldn't be peppering kisses over his skin like she wants him to find it while she's right here in his arms. And when he sorts them by date, he sees that the most recent is simply titled "read me".

He clicks. Obeying the command she's given in written form. And his hand returns to her leg, slides up to cradle her hip. And he reads. It isn't long at all. She watches him, he can feel it. But he reads.

_Babe,_  
_I know you'll find this. You'll probably catch me before I'm even done typing and that's okay. I want you to read it. I want you to know that every single day I spend with you amazes me. Each hour, every minute, all of it. You've been there through everything. Even when I didn't want you to be. I know I've said some of this and it isn't news nor needed but I love you. More than anything. Completely and wholeheartedly. I love you. I love us. And I can't wait to marry you._

He doesn't even read the rest. Doesn't need to see her salutation or the way she typed her name, actually her full name. He catches the Katherine in his peripheral as he turns to face her.

It's nothing he doesn't already know. Not one thing and yet he's so madly in love with her in this moment and it all seems new and exciting. It gives him a rush and he catches her lips before she can say one word. A hard press of his mouth against hers.

"Just for that, I'll let you keep the shirt."

"I was hoping you'd ask for it back...or just take it."

He does. Right there. Against the desk with her words still up on the screen. He leaves her bare and panting with only his name on her lips and his ring on her finger. She's a very giving and loving thief.


	3. Gray

**Disclaimer: Not mine. :)**

**A/n: Yet another little ficlet. Um this one is different in tone but the idea would not leave me alone so I had to include it.**

It's two in the morning when he misses her. When his body seeks the heat of hers and is met with cold. He frowns without opening his eyes and reaches out to pat across the empty space as if she's hiding somewhere. But no. He cracks an eye open, seeing nothing but the rumpled blanket she's tossed carelessly aside and that's when he knows. When he remembers the way she clung a little tighter when they'd made love. A slow gentle affair that had tears in her eyes and he knows why. She'd fallen asleep restlessly and his brain is awake enough now to remember why. He doesn't think twice before he's sitting up, running a hand down his face to wipe that last fuzzy edges of sleep away.

This is more important. He's up in a second, stumbling when his leg tangles in the blanket. He's not as awake as he needs to be. Stubs his toe on the door and curses softly, barely biting back the yell that wants out as the pain lances through his foot. He doesn't want to scare her though. He walks softly, more carefully in the darkness. She hasn't turned any of the lights on and he's basing his steps by moonlight and memory as he hits the living room.

Her silhouette is what he sees first. And the closer he gets the more he notices that she's not a silhouette against the glass of the window at all. He's struck with the street lamps and lights of the city illuminating her face, highlighting the tracks down her cheeks. His fiancée, his detective, the woman with the brave face. He doesn't say a word, just steps up at her side, his arm slipping around her waist. He can feel the chill in her skin. His flimsy gray cotton shirt doing nothing to stave off the cold of night. He wishes he would've brought her robe, her slippers, something. He should have thought. But no, when she leans heavily into him and rests her head against his shoulder, he knows this is what she needs. Even if it means her toes have to be cold and he'll suffer for it when he gets her back in bed.

It's snowing. Fat white flakes falling in a gentle sway. Floating down. Shining just like the tears he watches gather in her eyes. She's a silent crier when she's like this. A sadness that creeps up on her, wraps its fingers around her throat until she has no choice but to just let it out. It's quiet. No sound passing her lips. He squeezes her hip and she turns into him. Her eyes showing a pain he knows she's carried for so long that he can't do anything more than let his heart shatter right along with hers.

And it does. Over and over again. Because he'll never be able to take the hurt away. She breathes against him, her forehead meeting his chin as she breaks the silence.

"Still hurts." And her soft words have him wrapping both arms around her. She fits here so easily. A small woman in his hold as he presses his lips to her hair.

January 9th will always be hard for her. He knows but if he can or if he does help in some tiny way then that's enough. It's enough.

"Let's go back to bed."

"I can't. I never make it a minute after midnight. It's like my body just knows." Her voice cracks on the last word and he doesn't know what to say to make that better. There are no words.

He wipes her cheeks, kisses her as softly as he can, tasting the salt from her tears.

"Then let's at least sit." He wants to get her under a blanket. She doesn't even seem to notice that it's drafty. She holds herself when he pulls back, her arms over her stomach and her fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, her thumb worrying the engagement ring on her left hand.

That's when he stops, no longer concerned with the couch or the blanket he can wrap her in. It's the moment he realizes just why she's in his worn and almost rags tshirt. For comfort. She finds comfort in it and she chose it because she needed what warmth it provided. Not for her skin, for the ache in her chest. He pulls her back into him arms, guides her head to his chest with a hand on the back of her neck.

She didn't wake him last year either. She'd stayed at her own place even though he'd offered to be there with her. And it shows him how they've grown, how their relationship is so much more than he ever hoped it could be. She clings, her nails biting through the shirt covering his back. He whispers to her. Nonsense that he knows doesn't help a bit, telling her that he loves her and he's here. She already knows all of it.

She pushes harder into him, her mouth against his neck, kissing him there. It's a thank you and so much more. She lets him lead her to the couch, and sits on the very edge. He leaves her for just a second, to search for the softest blanket he can find.

He knows she's waiting, and as soon as he relaxes, stretches his legs out, she's climbing over him. Sinking down between him and the back cushions as he pulls the blanket over their bodies. Her mouth slides over his, her palm cradling his jaw and he gives her what she needs to take.

"Kate," barely even a whisper between them.

"It's snowing."

"Yeah." And even though it's sad, her lips tilt with a smile.

"It's beautiful." She's not crying anymore. He wants to say something, anything and he tries piecing words together but nothing seems right.

"I knew as soon as I woke up and realized you were gone. I couldn't let you do it alone this time."

"I'm glad you didn't." She rests against him, her muscles relax and she lays her head down. Right over the beat of his heart. She hums but her eyes stay open. "It's calming. The sound of your heart."

He doesn't say anything, just strokes his hand up and down her back to soothe her.

He keeps her close. Neither of them falling back asleep till daylight breaks across the sky and the snow becomes a hard steady fall that turns everything into a winter wonderland. That's when he feels her slip under and with a sigh, he follows right behind.


	4. Red

**Disclaimer: Not mine.****  
**

**a/n: Another drabble. I actually wrote this one BEFORE I wrote the last chapter. I switched up the order because I wanted something light after Gray.**

**Also I just want to thank everyone that has read and reviewed this. I never thought anyone would be interested in these 1000 word ficlets. I really didn't and honestly they're just a way for me to write out my feelings when I'm having a bad day so I know some of them are better than others. I personally think I enjoy the ones like Gray the most. There are more of those. But yeah, just thank you so much. I suck at replying individually lately but I do really appreciate every single review. **

He's seeing red. Figuratively and literally. The level of anger in his blood rises just because she's standing there in his shirt. Just his shirt. In their kitchen. Another one she's pilfered. The bright red of it against her skin is distracting and no. No, he's mad. He can't think about her body being blocked from his view just by thin fabric. He's upset and so is she.

Her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, her cheeks flushed with it as she props a hand on her hip. Except her eyes flash and he can't even remember why they're yelling. He's not even sure at this point if he started it or if she did. But just to hold onto his anger, he's gonna say it's her fault.

He's failing. Grappling for something to say because she's standing there, waiting, and he'd swear she's about to start tapping her bare foot. She's already postured for it. Her eyebrows raise and he just stops.

Whatever he'd been prepared to say is gone and he can't find it. Doesn't even know why he tried. And it astounds him that this woman can having him pulsing mad and then completely speechless and trying to remember why he's angry in a span of less than two seconds. That's what makes him shake his head, drop his gaze to the floor and rub a hand over the back of his neck.

"You are something else." It's the wrong thing to say. He knows but he meant it as a compliment and she takes it as an insult.

"Me? You looked in the mirror lately, bud?" And something in her tone reaches inside him, makes him really look at her.

All wild fire in her eyes and hair a mess. He remembers how it got tangled around his fingers when they'd been sweaty and bare in the bedroom floor. Less than a foot from the bed because neither of them could wait any longer. A few hours ago and how did they end up here? In the kitchen with space between them and anger coming off of her in waves.

He doesn't mean it, he really doesn't but it's just the ridiculousness of their situation and the way she crosses her arms. He chuckles. And it's probably the one thing neither of them are expecting. But once it starts, he can't stop it.

"You think this is funny?" Apparently she doesn't. He tries to shake his head, sober up but she's staring as if he's lost his mind and his chuckle becomes full blown laughter.

She's gaping at him, clearly not as amused and she's so serious about it that he tries to explain. It takes a few attempts before he gets it all out.

"I'm sorry. I am but you look so serious and I can't even remember why we're arguing." He leaves out the part about how sexy she is standing there in his rumpled shirt with her skin flushed. He's a man but he isn't that stupid.

"Castle, this isn't funny. I'm pissed off."

"Well so am I." And he is but he's still chuckling. "But we're practically naked in the kitchen, Kate and I know you're mad and I'm mad but why?"

"Because you..." Her eyes widen, her mouth snaps closed as if she's shocked and he knows. She bites her lip, glares at him and he knows she can't answer. She doesn't remember what started it either. Something small that got blown out of proportion.

Her head shakes as her gaze drops to her feet, her mouth tilts and then her soft laugh reaches his ears.

"God, Castle we can't even remember why we're arguing."

"Because it isn't important." All the lingering anger he's feeling disappears when she looks up at him. It's all there. The truth of that statement hitting them both in the chest.

He reaches first, extending his hand out towards her. A peace offering that she stares at for a good five seconds before she unfolds her arms and gently slips her fingers over his palm.

"Are we calling a truce?" She doesn't sound as upset, she's almost playful.

"If I had a white flag, I'd wave it." He smiles, hoping to get one in return. He doesn't.

Instead she's stepping closer, her free hand slipping between them. Two of her fingers dancing low on his abdomen, running back and forth over his waistband.

"Well these are gray, close enough right?" Her eyes lift and they're just as wild. But it's not anger in her touch.

"In the kitchen, Detective?"

"We have the place to ourselves."

"And we did just have an argument."

"Mm. We did. In fact, I'm still a little mad." She probably is and just for that he wraps his arm around her waist, pulls her against him with more force than he intended.

She stumbles into his chest, her cheeks are flushed and her breath is warm against his neck. He could kiss her, easily. Her mouth calls to him, her tongue teasing him when he catches the quick flick of it over her bottom lip. But he resists.

He could unbutton the red shirt of his that she's wrapped in. He could pull her down on the kitchen floor or hoist her up on the counter. And maybe he will later. But he doesn't. Not right now.

He hugs her. Stuns her into silence with it and he feels her hesitate before her hands rest warmly on his back and her cheek finds refuge against his chest. Her body fits his. In every way. She's his match and he loves her. Even when she's fighting mad and glaring straight at him.

"I'm sorry." He whispers it against her hair, kissing her head when she sighs.

"I'm sorry too." There's a second of silence. It's just them holding each other and he wonders how long they can stay like this.

He doesn't get to find out because she's pulling back, lifting up on her toes to kiss him. It's a soft press of her warm lips, a sharp nip of her teeth and he's the one that pulls away. He's the one that rests his forehead against hers.

"You drive me absolutely crazy but I love you." He'll never be able to explain the feeling she causes in his chest. How it sweeps over his entire body, gets down in his muscles, sinks into his bones or how she's managed to ninja his brain to the point of being completely consumed by her.

"Right back at ya, Castle. Now about this makeup sex..."

"It was a twenty minute argument, Beckett." He's not protesting sex. He isn't. He would never. Not when she's looking at him like that. And she knows he has a weakness for her in his shirts. He's merely pointing out a fact.

"Well if you'd like we can yell some more, I'll storm out for about an hour and then come back."

"Not happening when I know for a fact that you have nothing on under that shirt." No one gets to see her like this.

It's not just a possessive male thing, it's the truth. She's not this open with anyone. He breathes for it. Loves when they have a day just to be themselves with no outside world intervening.

She's out of his arms before he can tug her back, her gaze locked on his and a bare shoulder taunting him before the entire shirt falls to the floor.

Just minutes ago she was standing there with anger fueling every move, every word and now she's bare and swinging her hips to tease. He will never understand Katherine Houghton Beckett. But he looks forward to spending the rest of his life trying.


	5. Black

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**A/N: Okay, I know I haven't updated much (besides this fic) but I actually write these on a program on my phone which doesn't hold anything much longer than these short ficlets. My laptop charger no longer works so I have to borrow one at night and it makes updating difficult at the moment. I will try to finish up 'Three's A Crowd' this week and then focus on 'Don't Stop' more after that. Here's hoping for the best.**

**Also thank you so much for the reviews. I'll be replying soon. **

He's at his desk, fingers against the keys of his laptop and words appearing on the screen as he types. He thinks of only Nikki, of the case she's wrapped in. He puts himself in her world, escapes his own where he's a writer creating fictional characters. He becomes part of the hunt. Feels as if he's right next to Heat when her feet slap the pavement and the suspect disappears before she can grab him.

And there's nothing but words spinning, thoughts put to paper - so to speak. He took the day to write, owes Gina a couple chapters and even though he tried to convince his muse to let him follow her into the precinct, she'd pushed him back down on the bed and given him orders. Sleep. Write.

She'll be proud that he did both, that he's still here after a full day of typing. His hands still flying over the keyboard. Hasn't looked at the clock or moved an inch in so long that his eyes are starting to ache and there's a twinge in his back. But he has a chapter under his belt and when he finally pauses, it's a sense of confusion that settles.

What time is it? Has daylight become nightfall? What day is it? He shakes it off, looks around his office to make sure things are the same and his gaze locks on the lone figure leaning against the doorway. Lean and cloaked in black. Oh. That's when he knows it's later than he thought. She's home. Her shoulders slumped in exhaustion and hair pulled back in some messy twist that he's not sure he'll be able to untangle and bury his fingers in without causing her discomfort.

She doesn't say a word, slides into the room on graceful long legs despite the cloud he can sense looming over her. Brave and tall. A warrior. He almost comments on the Star Wars shirt she's "borrowing" but doesn't. It's not the time to point out the words across her chest. Or that she chose something silly. Or that it's a dark color, black, and he knows her well enough to know her clothes sometimes match her moods. And it's definitely not the right time to tease her for taking another of his shirts. Not even when he knows she had to hunt to find that one.

He extends an arm when she's close enough, his palm meeting the warmth of her hip. She's quiet. Silent. Her eyes shadowed and sleepy. It was so early when she got the call. His fingers squeeze and pull her closer before sliding down and around to the back of her thigh. He doesn't even have to press, coax her into his lap. She comes before his touch asks the question. Her answer in the way she straddles him, her knees on either side of his hips, her body dropping down and curling into his. He can feel it on her skin, the heaviness that's followed her home.

She inhales deep, the expansion of her rib-cage pushing against his arms when he wraps them around her. And then the exhale is hot against his cheek as her hand presses to the opposite side. Her voice soft, her lips moving over his jaw.

"Hey."

"Hard case?" The quick hiccup he feels stutter down her spine is enough. He kisses her, doesn't give her time to reply because he knows it must be.

So he caresses her mouth with his own, one hand sliding up into the knot she's tangled her soft locks into. He lingers, his lips staying against hers. Resting there as her fingers curve over his ear.

She whispers his name. Rick. Not Castle and he knows it's serious. She says it again, letting him taste it before she pushes her mouth hard against his and pulls away a second later.

It takes him a minute to focus on her, for his gaze to lock on her eyes. And then she's smiling at him. A small tilt of her lips that seems almost sad. His chest constricts, his heart thumping. Emotions are contagious. Especially hers.

"I could use your help on this one."

"You've got it." Doesn't matter what it is, where. If she asks, he'll follow. "What is it?"

"Young woman, raped and murdered. Castle, she's the same age as Alexis. Lived with her father, mother out of the picture. I had to break the news and her dad just fell apart." Her fingers clench over his ear, tugging a little uncomfortably as her breath rushes out. "I kept thinking of you."

"Kate."

"Of you and Alexis. You're my family."

"That's what makes you so good at what you do, Beckett. You identify, you feel, and you don't stop until you have the answers." But he understands now. Why she's burdened. He can feel it settling over himself. The cloak that comes from seeing the evil in the world.

It churns his stomach. Murder. For all his books, all the jokes, the crazy theories, sometimes it just sticks in his gut. And as he listens to her recite details of the case, he knows why this one is haunting her. All he needed to hear were the words "same age as" and every irrational fear a father can ever feel bombarded him.

He stops her. Shushing her quietly by cupping her jaw, guiding her until their noses bump.

"Let's call Alexis, invite her for a late dinner and a couple of movies." He's already picked the movies. Well actually she has by picking one of his Star Wars shirts. "I'm sure she'll be up for some George Lucas genius."

"Okay. Yeah, that sounds...perfect."

And then tomorrow they'll start fresh and rested. He'll make sure she sleeps. He's not sure he will now, but he'll make sure the circles under her eyes are greatly reduced by morning and her mind is clear.

He's always admired her heart. Has always loved how deeply she feels despite the fact that she tries so hard to hide it. Not from him. Not anymore. He loves her even more for that. And now that he knows just a few details of the case, he wants to nail the bastard just as badly as she does.

But first, he'll hold her close and take her mind off the world for just a little while.


	6. Orange

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**A/N: Enjoy. And a tremendous thank you to castle1701. This chapter is for you. ;)**

Many things can be said about Richard Castle. And he's sure not all of them are good, flattering, upstanding remarks. He knows that. He's an author - he's had critiques and nasty comments. He's dealt with scorned women and disgruntled bookstore employees. And of course the everyday people. The ones lingering on the sidewalks and the huffy attitudes because his coffee order took too long and they have somewhere to be. It's a world of impatience. A world of rude inconsiderate jerks that think only of themselves. And sometimes he's guilty of doing the same.

He's had his mood shift to the grumpy side when something doesn't quite go his way. It's human nature. But all of it seems so small, so unimportant when he sees _her. _And in that moment, he knows if someone could see _him_ then all they could say about Richard Castle would simply be that he's completely stupid in love. Nothing more. Well maybe they'd mention his 'just-rolled-out-of-bed' hair. But he doesn't know how they would even notice it when she's leaning out the open window of their bungalow.

A private beach stretched out in perfect view and the only thing he can look at is the woman with her elbows on the window sill and the soft orange fabric covering her body. She's had her hands in his suitcase. Her eyes watching the waves lap at the shore and her hair blowing softly in the breeze. The sun casts a golden tint to her skin that has him begging to touch. He wants to feel the warmth there, press his mouth to her cheek. Taste the sunshine.

She's beautiful. Always has been and yet today he can't take his eyes off of her. Because she's different today and so is he. It's like a dream and he keeps expecting to wake up any second. To be ripped away from this world with her smiling softly and playing with the rings on her finger. He briefly tears his gaze away from her to look down at his own left hand.

He married her two days ago. In front of their families and friends. Her dad walked her down the aisle and he, Richard Castle, _married _her. His heart still races with just the thought of it. The most beautiful bride he'd ever seen and she was his bride. His wife now. And that still astounds him, that she married him back.

His eyes find her again and she's turned the tables on him. Smiling softly and staring at him as if she knows exactly where his thoughts are and she probably does. It's a little more than obvious when he checks his hand constantly to make sure the ring she slipped on his finger remains in place. Forever. He closes the distance between them. His arms wrapping around her waist until her shoulder bumps his chest and she turns to skate her fingers up his jaw.

The warm puff of air passes from her mouth to his, tickling his lips until he brushes them against hers. A silent 'good morning, love' that ends in a smile and her fingers playing with his hair. He has her to himself, on a private beach in their own little private space for weeks. Just the idea of it has his fingers tugging the shirt she's wearing up to reveal more, his palms itching for the bare skin of her hips. They can get carried away. Leave the window open. He could easily guide her hands to the sill and tell her to leave them as he presses kisses down her spine.

Not yet. That'll keep for later. They've spent almost two days inside, enjoying each other and walking around in little more than nothing. He wants to take her out today. Into town, show everyone how lucky he is to have her. But her mouth is against his neck, imprinting lazy little kisses there and one of his hands abandons her skin to tangle in her hair.

"Kate," He means to tell her that he has plans and that they should get dressed but she rests her cheek against his shoulder, rubs her nose against him and he says nothing. Just holds her in place. And honestly, he doesn't want her to take off his shirt just yet.

Not when the orange looks better on her than it'll ever look on him. A color he only brought along because it seemed festive enough for the tropical location. Something he's sure she'll rib him over later. He's surprised she hasn't already mentioned it. His wife. His cop. The detective he somehow fell head over heels for. But right now, she's just the woman. Just Kate. Her skin warm from the sun and body that perfect mix of relaxed and slightly exhausted from tangling the sheets. And conserving water in the shower. Testing out the rug by the bed. Making sure the counters are sturdy. Rolling around in the sand.

Weeks. They have weeks to spend together and he really does plan on taking her around today. He wants to explore with her. He wants to watch the wonder and excitement light up her face. He thinks maybe she can sense it in him because she slowly eases her grip and raises her head. There's still a lazy smile on her lips as she finds his hands, tangles all ten of her fingers through all ten of his. And he can't resist bringing her knuckles up to his mouth, just has to kiss some part of her and it just so happens that his lips land on her rings.

"Still not a dream." He breathes it into her skin, smiling wide when she laughs at him. A soft quiet melody that pulls him in. She's a siren.

"No. We're married." And if at all possible he falls even more in love with her. With the way she bites her lip to try and stop the joy from splitting across her face. The way she bounces on her toes just a little and her hands squeeze his.

And then she's kissing him. Long and slow and pushing him back towards the bed. He lets her. He'll let her do anything she wants when she looks at him like he's the greatest thing she's ever seen.

Later, he'll take her out. Have lunch somewhere and walk around holding her hand as they point and argue over where to go. And he knows she'll still be in his shirt with her hair tossed up in a bun. She'll still be Kate. She'll still be his wife.


	7. Purple

**Disclaimer: Nope.**

**A/N: Another little shirt fic. Exciting news! My nephew starts school soon (for the first time) and I'll have more time to write. Until I'm forced to get a job which will also be soon. The never ending cycle.**

"Hey, Beckett have you seen my -" The unasked question is answered as soon as he rounds the corner and takes her in.

He finds her leaning against the bathroom counter, close to the mirror as she paints her lashes with a thick black mascara that she doesn't even need. The deep purple shirt he's planning to wear is currently falling off her shoulders. Leaving him in slacks, bare chested and searching. And it's been on her the whole time he checked under couch cushions. Behind the plant. All over their bedroom. He even looked in the closet twice thinking he'd forgotten to lay it out.

But no. Her sticky fingers had just found it before he could get dressed. He knows it'll never look as delectable on him as it does on her. But he'll need it back soon if they're ever going to make it on time. If he's not going to peel it off her and take his time exploring the deep blue lace beneath.

He watches her swipe the brush through her eyelashes, the way she tilts her head a little to make sure they're even on both sides. She's a creature of habit. He knows what happens next. Her tongue peeks out through her lips in satisfaction and then she's twisting the cap back on the tube of mascara with a quick efficient flick of her wrist.

He gets momentarily distracted by her hands. Those fingers. How long and graceful she makes each movement as she reaches up to comb through a mess of curls.

"I'm almost ready. What time does it start, again?"

"Eight. No rush." He leans against doorway, and her eyes meet his in the mirror. "You don't have to go if you -"

"I want to. I wouldn't miss it."

And that's the end of that. He wants her there. He wants to be able to reach for her hand if he desires. Or steal a kiss from her as he hands her a glass of champagne. She calms him.

She stops fussing with her hair. Turns towards him with her brows furrowed and he knows that she knows. She can tell. All the puttering around he's been doing. The way he spent the day writing instead of following her into the precinct. And he shifts a little uncomfortably under her gaze.

"You're nervous." He almost denies it but she's a pro in interrogation. She knows when people lie.

He steps up. Opens up. Closes the distance between them and reaches for her hips.

"I always am."

"That's...adorable." And now he's the one frowning. "I just mean it's nice to know. You've written so many best sellers and you're still nervous for the release of this one book."

"It could flop. That's always a risk. Just because someone reads a series or loves an author doesn't necessarily mean that the next book will do as well. I'm sure you've read a series before and been disappointed by or absolutely hated at least one of the books." So yes, he's nervous. Fidgety.

But she leans into him, wraps her arms around his neck and it's not so bad. The jumping in his stomach calms just a little and the scent of her has his tensed muscles easing.

"It'll do great. I know it will."

"When you write something it becomes a piece of you. An extension. You take an idea and spin it into something for others to enjoy but it's not easy to put it out there. The criticism and the hate that always comes." It's something he's learned to deal with. The bestseller title doesn't lie and that proves more people loved than hated.

But this series. This series is her. The woman in his arms with the vibrant eyes and the soft smile tilting at her lips. He's protective of it. Of her. His Detective Beckett. His shirt stealing wife and the character he's based off of her. Of course he's nervous. He wants the new book to do well. He wants people to read it and fall a little bit more in love with Nikki every time.

Just as he fell head over heels for her inspiration. But he doesn't say that. He doesn't have to. He just leans in and smooths his lips over hers. Caresses her jaw until she sighs into him. And then she's whispering against his skin, leaving him wishing they had a little more time.

"Well I loved it." That's all it takes to have his face splitting in a grin. Because she's the one that matters. And he knows she did. She'd told him as soon as he'd let her read it.

But right now. In this moment. He needed to hear it again.

He loves these moments. The way she laughs and wipes at his mouth. Murmuring about how her lipstick doesn't match his skin tone. Not that he cares. He'd wear it all night like a badge of honor. Proof that he gets to be loved and love this amazing woman.

She shrugs out of his shirt, helps him slide into it and it's her fingers that slip every button into place. The fabric is warm from her skin. And he can smell her. That soft feminine scent that doesn't come from perfume or lotion. It's just her.

She runs off to find a tie. Tells him to stay put and he does. She's back in less than a minute. Blacken silk between her fingers and he has to admit that he loves how she pops up his collar, slides it around his neck. Her eyes darken as she knots it and he knows exactly what that tie will be used for when they get home.

She pulls it too tight. Smiling with her tongue between her teeth when the hand he has over her lace covered hip clenches. Just for that he reaches around, pinches her rear. She loosens it and gives him a soft peck on the lips before she's out of his arms again.

She combs her hair up into some twisted curled bun. Something he plans to remedy later. But he'll watch and keep comments to himself. Still reveling in the fact that his shirt smells of her. That's what he'll be dealing with all night.

The dress she slips into is only a shade lighter. And he wonders if she did that on purpose. Or if it's just a coincidence that they'll arrive at his book launch party looking as though they color coordinated outfits. Not that it matters. It doesn't.

She'll be there and he won't be as nervous about his words being printed for all to read. The book out there for people to judge. That's the part that gets him sometimes. Who are they to judge? He's the one that put in the time, the research and then someone somewhere is going to read it, hate it. And that's fine. People have different tastes and he's fine with that. But they're his words, his story. Well...it's hers too in this case. And he just wants it to do as well as the previous novels. He wants her to see how special she is, not just to him but as a person.

"You ready, Castle?" There's a light in her eyes, something playful in her tone. And he smiles at her, offering his arm for her to take. She'll never understand just how much she impacts people's lives.

And he feels better with her by his side.


	8. Maroon

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**A/N: Okay so I know I've been kinda absent. There are reasons why...if you're interested, go to insidethemindofthemarvelous dot weebly dot com and everything is mostly explained. I can't promise frequent updates, it never works and now I have no idea when I'll have time to write or even feel like it. I'm not going to type a long authors note, so if you're curious just check out that site. I actually recommend it because this is something I have now become pretty passionate about. **

Maybe it's strange that this is his favorite part of the day but he doesn't care. It is and no one can say or do anything to change that. He likes the click of her heels as he ushers her through the door. He enjoys how she sighs and how her fingers squeeze around his when she leads him into their home. And how sometimes, like now, she continues tugging as he trails after her. Not stopping until they're in their bedroom. He loves to watch her shrink before his eyes as she toes off the heels, how she'll fit right beneath his chin if he chooses to pull her in and hold her tight. It's a brief thought, one he'll explore further in a few minutes.

But not right now. Because he's an observer. And she's shrugging out of her jacket and smiling at him, only letting go of his hand to escape the confinement of leather. And he's her watcher. As creepy as it is, as she says, it's what he enjoys. He likes knowing her. He loves the little things. How she kicks her shoes aside and tosses the jacket on the bed.

Later, she'll pick it all up and put things away but not now. And that's why this is his favorite. Because she's warm and smiling and still on high from closing their case. They're home early. The sun hasn't even set. But she'd decided the paperwork could wait, that they could all use some sleep.

The silence is easy. Still wrapped in warmth and an understanding that words aren't needed. Not always. Sometimes they're both content to just be. And when her eyes meet with his and her tongue pokes out between her teeth, her smile wide and brilliant, he feels swamped with it. Every word she hasn't said floods through him as she closes the distance between them again. She reaches first. It still astounds him, knocks him breathless when she's playful and reaching, when she steals soft kisses or demands punishing ones.

It's her voice, low and velvet, rich like chocolate that draws his attention to her lips. Soft, ripe lips.

"Take off your shirt." Not a request. She's commanding it. And a smirk spreads on his face.

He would. He would definitely do anything she tells him when it involves losing clothing. Except, her fingers are already slipping the buttons free. Not giving him the time, but he helps. He starts at the bottom, meets her in the middle. And she's parting the fabric, pushing it off his shoulders before he even has the time to realize he's still wearing his jacket.

"Kate," he murmurs it to stop her, and it does. "Give me a minute."

His wife is impatient when she wants something. He knows that. But she doesn't argue, she steps back, let's him pull off his jacket, untuck the tails of his shirt. It takes him more than a minute, he fumbles when she joins in. When she casually lifts her shirt over her head and lets it the floor. He falters, his eyes locking on skin.

Her bra is next. And it's all so intimate without being rushed, without mouths meeting and hands roaming. It's just her undressing as if she's about to step into the shower but it's still her and she's still getting naked. He's all for it. Whatever it is that she's planning, he's game.

And that makes him rush a bit, fight with the buttons at his wrists. It's always those ones that get him. He has to stop staring at her to make his fingers work. He has to stop watching as she pushes the fabric of her pants down her hips. And finally, finally he gets the shirt off.

She's down to her panties, the ones he'd barely kept his hands off when she slid them on this morning and he's still wearing his shoes. It doesn't seem right. That's when he sees the amusement in her gaze, when he's standing there clutching a shirt and she's so very close to bare.

He loses focus again, doesn't know exactly what's happening when his eyes wander to her breasts. Not his fault. It's really not. She's just...hot. And she's his wife. His heart still races when she leans in, when her lips part and he can feel the heat of her chest against his.

"Thanks, babe." And then she's gone. And so is his shirt.

And he's suddenly very jealous of it. Of the fact that she's slipping her arms into it, covering all the skin he was enjoying.

"I -"

"Yes?"

"I just...I thought -"

"Thought what, Castle?" It's the innocent expression on her face that has him reaching out, grabbing both sides of his shirt, not letting her button them before he pulls her in.

Heat flames her skin, he can see it, the pink of it creeping in. He can taste it on her lips when he presses his mouth against hers.

"You just stole the shirt off my back, Beckett."

"I don't think 'stole' is the appropriate term."

Oh but he does. He's pretty sure that is exactly what she's done.

Even if she used compulsion to make him hand it over. It was under false pretenses. And he wants it back. Off. He wants it off.

She wiggles away, just far enough to tease by swinging her hips and to laugh when the air rushes out of his lungs but does she expect less? When her hands are sliding those panties down her legs, does she expect him not to react?

He tackles her. With his shoes still on. And that stupid shirt she's determined to wear still covering a little too much for his liking. The maroon against her skin.

He doesn't realize until later, when she's still wearing it, panting against his neck that it's the same shirt he wore to his daughter's graduation. The one he wore when the woman slumped on his chest became more than a partner and friend he'd thought he'd lost. And right then, he understands why she wanted it.


	9. Plaid

**Disclaimer: Castle is not mine. **

**A/N: This idea was given to me by a friend. And I wrote it out for her. Hope everyone enjoys. So plaid isn't a color but a pattern, yet I wanted to add it and it fits just fine. ;)**

He hears her come in. The heavy footsteps telling him that her day has not been a very good one. She's usually light on her feet, quick and almost silent. Even in her heels. But this is heavy, solid. Drained. As if she has no energy left at all.

He almost goes to her, but he's smart enough to give her a little time to decompress. And he listens, knowing her movements without being right beside her to watch. He knows she'll head to the bedroom first and bypass him completely without so much as a look. It's late, she's tired. She's been up too long but she won't admit that to anyone. She won't even realize it. Not now. Now that she's finally home, she won't remember getting the call at three in the morning and leaving him with a kiss.

He hasn't seen her since he took her lunch, knowing she wouldn't eat unless someone was there to remind her. She invests. She pours every piece of herself into cases like this one. And he wishes he hadn't procrastinated the last few chapters. He could've been there to help but he's on a deadline and it's not looking so good.

He gives her five minutes. Only five and then he's setting off to find her. To help her relax some and just let out her frustration. He knows she must be upset about something, she'd promised to bring dinner but she didn't. He knows because she would've come straight to him if she had. But it's late and he already had a snack anyway. His stomach still growls, probably in sympathy for hers.

She's in front of their bed when he finds her. Her hands scrubbing down her face and he notices she's already stripped everything away. Her clothes, her makeup. She's tossed her hair up in a bun, not caring that it's a complete mess. He finds her adorable. But concern taints it. In five minutes she's completely shed everything reminding her of the day. And she's found his old plaid shirt that he hasn't seen in years. Several years. In fact, he thought he'd tossed it.

"Hey," he says it softly, hoping not to startle her. She's picking at a loose thread on one of the sleeves, pacing back and forth.

Is it any wonder that he finds her completely adorable?

She doesn't look at him. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead and he can see the frustration. The pinch in her brow, the firm set of her lips. Her jaw tight and he wonders if she has a headache from it yet.

"Beckett?" And then she's looking back at him, blinking in confusion. As if she doesn't know when he joined her.

There's pain lingering in her gaze, frustration and anger burning bright. Definitely a headache mixed in there somewhere and she's still pacing.

"This case..." She pauses, and he lets her gather her thoughts, knows she needs to get it out. "There's nothing, Castle, nothing. No leads, no suspects, we're chasing our tails."

He knows better than to tell her it's only been one day. He doesn't interrupt.

"It's like this person never existed. No record. Nothing on dental or prints. No cell phone, no ID. I have nothing. Dinner, god I was supposed to bring dinner and I -"

"S'okay." This is more than frustration. This is her being exhausted, being so tired that she'll be out as soon as he gets her to sit down.

"No. It's not. I tried and they were closed and I was already late -"

"Kate,"

"...and this case, I got sucked in and it's a dead end. There's nothing..."

So tired she's going in circles. Probably not even aware that she's pacing and rambling. Still going on about dinner and a case. How she's sorry for not bringing something else and then switching back to dead end leads.

The concern he has for her rips through his chest. She has to be hungry, it's obvious she's dead on her feet and he's pretty sure she has the mother of all headaches. Just judging from the way she rubs her temple, jaw clenching tighter. And here she is, about to break down and yet still apologizing because she didn't bring dinner.

He says her name again. But she's too busy. Not listening. And he needs her to slow down and stop. She needs to let go for a few hours. He steps into her, directly in the path she's wearing into the floor and she still bumps into him. Chest meeting his, lips still moving when he reaches for her face and strokes his thumb over her cheek. He silences her, gives her something else to think about with his mouth meeting hers. She was mid apology again and he's done hearing it. There's no reason for it.

So he kisses her. Soft, slowly sipping from her lips as she sighs into him. He puffs up with pride at that. The fact that he can clear her mind for just a moment and all it takes is a kiss. Just his lips caressing hers and the worries ease. He can feel her relax, her muscles giving in when she all but clings to him. Her hands clenching his shirt, mouth opening beneath his.

He drags his lips from hers, hears the small mewl of protest and feels her tug at him. Wanting him back. And he knows, he knows she's craving more. He can feel it too, the zip in his blood, the rush, the softness of her mouth calling him back. He almost goes, almost leans in and gets lost but her head drops, her body curls and she's wrapping her arms around him before he can taste her again. Cheek to his chest, she exhales heavily and her fingers dig into the base of his spine as he holds her close. They both need it for the moment. The closeness.

They sway, silently. Both content and he's just glad that some of her frustration has disappeared. She's not as upset now and that had honestly been his only goal. Calm her down. Now he needs to get some food in her.

"I forgot what I was saying." She admits it softly, her breath warm against his skin and though he knows she's frowning, he smiles.

"I think it was something about how we should have some dinner, make out a little, and go to bed."

"Not quite sure that's where I was going with it."

"Close enough." The softness of her lips ghost over his neck, amusement hidden in the touch.

"Yeah, close enough." Neither of them move until her stomach rumbles in a loud protest and he finally gets the strength to pull away.

Food. Make out. Bed. That's his plan. It seems solid, doable.

Until he leaves her for five minutes to scrounge up some sandwiches.

She's not pacing when he gets back with a plate in hand. She's not overrun with frustration. She's no longer pissed. She's fast asleep, on top of the blanket. Her breaths heavy and body curled. The exhaustion has won. And he can't bring himself to wake her. He ditches the food, crawls in with her and tells himself that he'll make them both a big breakfast. And then they'll go catch a killer.

He can miss his deadline by a day...or two.


End file.
